


Salve

by unfoldingbliss



Category: Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: F/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 07:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfoldingbliss/pseuds/unfoldingbliss
Summary: It’s in these moments he realizes the extent of his obsession. [Malva/Siebold]





	Salve

**Author's Note:**

> Another old fic! I'm sad I didn't do more with these two because their potential is GREAT. Editing this made me want to replay XY though... I miss my kids.

Malva’s sick in his bed.

She wakes up sick, eyes puffy and nose dripping. There’s something going around the Plateau, and she must have caught it on her trip back from Luminose. Nothing seemed apparent last night. She ate, laughed, kissed, and scratched with the same amount of ferocity - with that perfect cross between sensual and playful. Such a veneer (such a woman) could sate him for days.

And yet, with her hair down and disheveled, shivering underneath his thick, blue blankets… it’s hard to believe her fingers brushed up against his chest hours before, her touch twisting his throat, his grip tightening around her soft hips…

“Siebold,” Malva’s voice grates, and she winces at the sound. Raw, vulnerable, needy… Siebold’s sure such a noise appalls her. “It’s cold.”

“I know,” Siebold replies and throws his side of the cover over her. His hands rummage the floor for a spare pair of sweats, anything to warm her. “Do you think putting your clothes back on will help?”

Her mouth opens to answer, but she’s cut off by an unpleasant, throaty cough. His blood cools and his heart curls into itself, and he’s afraid this might be a bit more serious. He’s still naked as he scrambles to her side, fingers burning - shaking with a terrible want to hold her. But he can’t afford to catch whatever she has, if only for her sake.

She looks so unlike the Malva he adores, crumpled beneath him with bloodshot eyes. What kind of man would he be if his lover sweats and moans alone, without his comfort and support?

“Do you… do you want some soup?” he asks when her cough calms and she sits against the bed frame. The blankets slip from the top of her neck to the ends of her shoulders, her skin a pale, sickly pink. “I can make you some - it won’t take long, I promise.”

Malva turns her face towards him and he can tell she wants to smile, but her lips are chapped and swollen. It must hurt to even breathe. “It’ll help, right?”

“Of course,” Siebold nods and kisses the top of her forehead, the taste of stale salt clinging to her brow. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Just try to sleep for now, okay?”

“Okay,” Malva replies, her voice heavy and soft all at once, “I’ll be waiting.”

He’s reluctant to leave the bed - to leave her at all - but he reassures himself that she’ll be fine, that this sudden cold, flu, whatever would pass. It’s only his lover (his not-quite-girlfriend), sick in his bed, weak in the worse way. She needs him now in a way she hadn’t before—not someone to claim, but someone to wipe the sickness from her face, to hold her hand as she drifts off into a restless sleep.

His heart continues its restless beats as he prepares Malva’s soup, ensuring each measurement is exact. He hates the insistence, the need to continue his artistry despite a sick woman shivering in the opposite room. He wants to throw the ingredients into the pot and light the stove—he wants to scour his pantry and find _one_ can of pre-made tomato or chicken soup, ready to open and microwave. But instead of looking or plopping broth into an empty pot, he cuts three potatoes and fishes out a dirty teaspoon from the sink. So he can measure the precise amount of salt and cloves.

It’s in these moments he realizes the extent of his obsession. And, maybe, he should do something about it.

But the thought flees him when Malva coughs violently, panic settling into his shoulders. He finishes her meal and adds a soft bread roll and a glass of water to either side of the large bowl. He tries to manage a calm disposition, but his feet hit the wood floor hard and the door swings faster than he would have liked.

Malva’s sitting up again and tears stream down her cheeks, bony fingers knotted into her thick, pink hair. When Siebold approaches the bed, she turns away, likely ashamed of her weakening frame. Especially with him—the lover she keeps, the only man she shares herself with.

And _shit_ \- he can’t drop the plate of food onto the ground and run towards her. He can’t (and won’t) take her cold hands into his and kiss away every tear clinging to her chin.

Not until he sits the food onto the dresser. Not until he knows her food ( _his art_ ) is safe.

“Siebold,” Malva whimpers from the other side of the room, “Siebold…”

He pulls her into his arms seconds later, whispering, “Do you think we should go to the ER?”

She says nothing, and he knows that’s as much of an answer he’ll receive.

Pride blinds her like obsession blinds him.

Her hold loosens, and she leans her back into his chest, her breathing a little steadier. A little easier. “Stay with me.”

Just as much of a command as a plea - but he’ll comply, nonetheless.

“Always, _ma fifille,_ ” he murmurs into her damp hair, “Always.”

He loves her, obsession be damned.


End file.
